


Catalyst

by LunaKat



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions, Pocket Monsters: Black 2 & White 2 | Pokemon Black 2 & White 2 Versions
Genre: Backstory, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gift Fic, Past Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/LunaKat
Summary: Catalyst(noun)a substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction without itself undergoing any permanent chemical change.OR: a person or thing that precipitates an event.





	Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MintyElectronica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintyElectronica/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Electric Sheep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10578933) by [MintyElectronica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintyElectronica/pseuds/MintyElectronica). 



It all started fifty years ago, before Accumula and Nuvema were official cities and still had “town” tacked to the end of them, before Hilda King was a household name and before Rosa Alvarado became an agent for the International Police. Before Reshiram and Zekrom were reborn into the modern era and a twisted man’s truth was revealed, back when truth and ideals were still young and the heroes representing them not yet chosen, before Kyurem’s secrets were discovered and before Unova collapsed into the state of utter disrepair that it was in today, before generations spent their entire lives without knowing the joy of a living, breathing Pokémon. Before the invention of mechanical Pokémon with strange, whirring voices that he couldn’t for the life of him decipher.

N still remembers that day vividly—the white stone, the fresh taste of spring that brought the smell of flowers from local florists putting out their wears, the blue sky and the tall buildings of human civilization and the discomfort of being packed into a small space while surrounded by so many _people_. It was a rally—Team Plasma, the original menace of Unova, though he hadn’t viewed them that way at the time—and banners had been thrown up proudly, and the stage was occupied by fervent believers dressed in knightly garb. N remembers how much he’d begged to see it. Just one rally, he’d said, just this once. Just this once, and he wouldn’t ask to leave the castle again.

(And the sad thing was, he’d meant it. Sometimes he hates his younger self for being so gullible and trusting. It wasn’t like he could have known, but still.)

He remembers the swell of pride that had filled him as Ghetsis (“Father”, then, but not anymore) filled the town square with his fervent, eloquent (lies) speech, and how the people in the crowd had broken out into whispers in its wake. He remembers how some people looked particularly hesitant to defend the status quo, and how others looked horrified at the idea that they were subjecting their beloved partners to so much pain. And he was _proud_. _Proud_ that his message was spreading as it was, that Plasma really was doing good in the world like he’d always believed.

(N sometimes wonders if there were other rallies, or if that one had just been staged for his benefit.)

Then a man from the middle of the throng cried bullshit, called Ghetsis and his truths ridiculous, and N watched as the mob mentality took over and suddenly all the people ready to do the right thing were agreeing that Team Plasma was full of nonsense.

 _Cowards_ , N had thought furiously. _Idiots. Fools. You understand nothing._

 _And you are the greatest fool of all_ , N thought about the man who’d started the outcry (oh, the irony) as the crowd began to disperse.

And it was as the people went back to their lives, pretending that nothing had ever happened, and as the chatter of human voices died down that N heard it.

 **Well, geez, I dunno what that guy was talking about** , came a voice. It was small, but not tentative in the slightest. **I kinda like my Trainer, y’know? She’s nice.**

And N felt the world _rock_ , felt it dip and pivot and turn upside down on its axis. The ground under his feet shook, and he literally almost lost his balance, it was so shocking. He’d heard thousands of Pokémon’s voices over the years, and they each all told a different story (but it was only one truth, at the core, a truth that was warped and twisted in many ways but in the end always came down to “humans are cruel to us”), but never, never ever _ever_ had he heard a Pokémon say that it _liked_ a human being other than himself. That was another thing entirely, something that did not align with the truth of the future he envisioned so passionately.

N’s truth had been rigid, definite and absolute, polished and perfected by years and years of exposure to that single truth until it became his own. He’d fabricated elaborate formulae in order to define and explain it, and to him, it was perfect. And because he’d yet learn that the problem with perfection is that it doesn’t accept change, nor does it accept improvement or differing ideals, and so with his mind locked by this rigid truth of his, could not grasp something that existed so outside his own personal realm of possibility. When he turned, his mind scrambling to understand this separate truth that clashed so violently with his own, it was with the utmost disbelief and incredulity that he took in the source of this unforeseen variable. Standing where the edge of the crowd had was a simple girl, young and naïve and smiling in a manner that was all-too carefree, with a waterfall of brown curls tied back into a fluffy ponytail, a pink baseball cap with a pink bill that cast a faint shadow over her sapphire eyes, and an intrepid Tepig cradled in her arms.

She wore sporty garb, the kind meant for wear and tear, and with the Tepig in her arms—well, two plus two makes four, and N quickly deduced that she was a Trainer herself. A twist of loathing went through N’s and he pursed his lips as he watched her interact with the dark-haired, bespectacled boy at her side. Add two to four and you got six, and this boy must have also been a Trainer—both come to see the rally and understand their sins, only to laugh it off and return to basking in the ignorance of the culture that they’d grown up surrounded in. But this boy was not like the girl, because whatever Pokémon partner the boy had on him was nowhere in sight, and likely locked away in one of those infernal contraptions called Poké Balls. N could hear it, faintly, from where he stood, and the voice was pleading to be let out so it could enjoy the same sight as its Tepig friend. It was then that N decided that as much as he disliked the girl (Hilda) for being a Trainer, he disliked the boy (Cheren) even more, because at least the girl had the decency to not lock the poor Tepig away while the boy didn’t even allow his Pokémon the virtue of freedom to stretch their legs (which was also why it would be a very long time before N and Cheren stopped hating each other and reach a comfortable level mutual respect).

All the while, the Tepig spoke and spoke about how Plasma was ridiculous and he liked being with his Trainer and battling and—

And it was too much. It just _too much_. By the time the boy left, N felt dizzy and lightheaded and like the ground was going to collapse out from under him, each word poking tiny, pinprick holes into the carefully crafted veil of logic and truth that he’d cast over the world.

The girl set the Tepig down and said something he didn’t catching, but whatever it was, it made the Tepig respond positively. He caught the words Pokémon Center and PC, and he _lost it_. The Pokémon Center, advertised as a place of healing, was in reality just a tool for Trainer’s to continue the perpetual, bloody violence of the Pokémon battling scene, and the PC was the cruelest component of the cycle of abuse known as Pokémon training. To hear a Pokémon sound so enthusiastic— _no_. No no nonono, this was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

A desperation overtook N as she turned away, and before he realized what he was doing, he was following her down the street, his pace urgent as he raced to catch up to her. Like hell he was just going to let her walk away without explaining herself, and the same thing could be said for her Tepig companion.

She started out calm, her arms cross casually behind her head and her steps wide but leisurely. But then she glanced over shoulder and noticed him—and she must have, because he saw her eyes widen a little—she let her hands falls and her pace quickened, became more cautious. N frowned and continued to follow her, speeding up as he tried to catch up with her.

Again, she glanced back, and she sped up a little more. Her shoulders hunched and she buried her hands in the pockets of her torn jean shorts. The Tepig was struggling to keep up, now. It was a small inconsideration, but it was enough to keep N on her tail.

Finally, he caught up to her and grabbed her by the shoulder, forcing her to come to a stop.

She yelped, and then she whirled around and thrust her arm out. N barely flinched back to avoid getting hit. He almost went cross-eyed staring at her hand, which was flat and held out like a knife poised to stab.

The girl took a large step back, drawing her arms up in a defensive position, hands still poised flat like knives. There was something vaguely threatening—or perhaps threatened was more accurate?—in the way her dark gaze probed him, the way her shoulders tightened, and the way her lips pursed. At her side, the Tepig slid into a battle stance, legs wide, tail high in the air, head down and ears back.

“Okay pal,” the girl said with the utmost serious, “I don’t know why you’re following me, but I’m warning you. I know kung fu.” And as if to punctuate this, she made a few thrusting, knife-like motions with her arms. “So come any closer, and I will legit fuck you up.”

N stared.

And stared.

And _stared_.

And tried to comprehend the utter stupidity before him.

The girl’s straight face began to waver. “And I have Curly, too, and he knows Ember.”

 **Heck yeah!** The Tepig, Curly, said and snorted embers.

N continued to stare.

The girl’s arms began falter, trembling slightly. Was that a hint of uncertainty in her eyes? “Y’know. Curly. Like. Like his tail. Because it’s curly.”

N blinked.

“Oh my god, why am I telling you this?” the girl muttered, a small tremor in her voice.

 **Don’t worry!** Curly exclaimed, all courage and bravado. **I’ll protect you from this creep!**

Again, such _loyalty_. N knew that Pokémon were naturally devoted and caring beings, but this statement, coupled with those he’d observed earlier, threw him for a loop, and his ears began to ring.

“Just now...” N murmured numbly. This didn’t make sense. It did not compute, did not fit into his perfect equation. “Your Pokémon was saying...”

The girl blinked, and she lowered her arms somewhat. “I. He. What?”

Hesitantly, N dropped to one knee and held his hand out to Curly. The Tepig tensed initially, ready to burn N’s hand should it come to close, but N made no attempt to come closer. He simply held his hand out like an offering, and waited for Curly to accept on his.

After a moment, Curly relaxed and came a little closer to sniff N’s hand. N raised his hand, but Curly instantly tensed, and N froze. Waited. The Tepig wasn’t speaking right now, but N could discern a general sense of wariness and confusion from him, which was understandable. Pokemon rarely trusted strangers at first. But then Curly started sniffing at N’s hand again, and N lowered it slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, until it was resting on Curly’s head. Then, _gently_ , N started to pet him.

Curly’s voice was content when it next reached N’s ears. **Ohh... D-Don’t think this means I trust you, you— Ooh! Lower, lower— _that’s_ the spot. You need to teach my Trainer how to do this, ‘cause she’s new and this is _awesome_.**

N allowed himself to smile—until he realized the girl was still staring at him.

“Okay,” she muttered “What the crap is happening right now?”

He stood and she tensed again, her arms rising back up in that defensive manner from before.

“Dude, seriously. I’ve watched a lot of kung fu movies, so I know how this works.” She paused, blinking. “Dammit, why did I just tell you that?”

N said nothing.

“Okay. Seriously. Don’t just stare at me. Like, _say_ something.”

“You. You are a new Trainer, yes?” he asked her.

Her eyes went wide, and her jaw went slack.

“My name is N,” he said. “I am... also a Trainer, in a sense, I suppose. And I can’t help but wonder. Are Pokémon really happy this way? Treated as lesser beings than their supposed masters?”

“I just became a Trainer today,” she murmured numbly, seemingly still stuck on the fact that N was aware her newness. “But, you. How did you—”

“I told you—Curly told me. Perhaps that maybe be a baffling concept to you, that Pokémon do in fact have voices and opinions and can freely disseminate information as they so please, but—”

“Whoa!” She allowed her arms to drop from that odd defensive position, but she raised her hands in a gestured that N vaguely recognized to mean halt. “ _Slow down_. You’re talking, like, _way_ too fast.”

In N’s opinion, the girl was talking too _slow_. He’d always preferred the language of Pokémon to that of humans. The language of the Pokémon is swift and delicate, and it sounds so much more beautiful than the slow, chunkiness of human language, the tediousness of human words. N will speak it, but grudgingly, and he’d rather fly through it like he would with the language of Pokémon than restrict himself to artificial constraints such as slower speed, simply because other people couldn’t process things at the same speed as him. It was hardly his fault their processing abilities were inferior to his.

She frowned at him. “You... You said Curly... _talked_ to you? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course.” The dubious look on her face sent a pang of disappointment through him. “Oh. You can’t hear him, either. How sad.”

“How stoned are you?” she blurted.

N blinked and tried to hide his indignance over the fact that she’d used a word he was unfamiliar with. How was it that this girl knew something he didn’t? was his exact thought at that time.

(And he would ask himself that continually over the next few months as they found themselves pulled by a great electronegativity until they only opposed each other, clashing, clashing, clashing in a continual elastic collision until the world exploded like the splitting of an atom.)

“I want to hear of your Pokémon’s voice,” N had told her, and things got fuzzy after that. He remembers that they ended up battling despite N’s fervent pacifistic stance (which was a real testament to how persuasive Hilda could be, even back then), Curly against the Purrloin Rood had insisted N carry with him for self-defense—though he’d disliked that it that the Purrloin was confined to one of those infernal Poké Balls.

Curly won.

As she thanked him for the battle and then left, N decided he wasn’t ready to return to the castle—and he wouldn’t be until he could find a way to explain how a Pokémon could love battling for its Trainer so much.

(It took a lot of begging and pleading and wheedling, but N somehow convinced Ghetsis to allow him to continue travel. And that had been Ghetsis’s first mistake, because that moment—that was the _catalyst_.)

* * *

N recalls the next time he’d seen her—Nacrene, before the High Line Pathway had been installed and the Trainer journey had become so streamline, back when the city was more _authentic_. Her team had grown exponentially, as had her skill, and he was hardly surprised when she beat him a second time.

He remembers wincing when he recalled his final Pokémon back to the (cradle) prison of the mechanical ball, and Hilda, well, she was grinning brighter than combusting magnesium.

“That was a good battle,” she told him enthusiastically. “Definitely better than last time.”

N grunted. He’d been more engaged in that battle, admittedly, but only because he’d come to the decision that she had to be significant. There were so many moving parts in his plan to reawaken the legendary dragon and become a (savior) hero, but he’d only ever accounted for the second hero until recently.

(He doesn’t yet consider that Hilda might be the other hero, but he’d figured it out soon enough)

“So,” she began, giving her newly-evolved Pignite an affectionate pat on the head. “What brings you here?”

“I am pursuing the truths of Pokémon within Poké Balls, and exploring the ideals of what a Trainer should be,” he told her, because it was the truth, and he saw no reason to hide or be ashamed of it.

The girl arched a brow, equal parts amused and confused by his reaction, but she let it slide. “Fine, fine. At least tell me if there’s anything tourist-y enough to warrant a visit. Y’know, other than the Gym. But, oh! My friend Bianca told me about this great little coffee shop near the edge of town. Have you been? Is it any good?”

N blinked, not understanding. She had such a strange manner of speaking. All he really understood from what she’d said was something about the Gym, and it made him scowl.

“The Gym in this city doubles as a museum and library,” N said, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “How deplorable for an institution dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge to merge with a place dedicated to _battling_.”

She gave him another curious look. “Is that where you were doing? Searching for these truths and ideals inside the museum?”

(That had been exactly what he’d been doing—searching for a future in the past. As the saying goes: history repeats, and he’d hoped to glimpse what had gone wrong before to make sure it didn’t go wrong again.)

He eyed her skeptically. “Why are you so interested in my whereabouts?”

“Oh, c’mon! A Mystery Man who can talk to Pokémon?” She flashed another magnesium-combustion smile. “Seriously, I’ve got, like, so many questions. Which reminds me! I talked to my friend Cheren about it and he thinks that it would make Routes loud and insufferable. Me? I think it would add to the experience. So, how has it been for you, traveling from Route to Route? Annoying? Surreal? What?”

N blinked again, once again at a total loss. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh _c’mon_.” Her voice turned slightly pleading. “My friend is, like, a total sore winner and I _have_ to prove him wrong, otherwise he’s never gonna shut up.”

N blinked. “If he is your friend, why do you disagree with him?”

The girl quirked a brow. “Um. Well, just because you’re friends with someone doesn’t mean you have to, like, agree with everything they say or think. Heck, you can have totally different opinions and still get a long. One of the joys of friendship.”

That concept was totally baffling to N at the time (because he was young and narrow-minded and had yet to realize that he was not always in the right), that two people could disagree on (truth and ideals) certain fundamental principles yet somehow be friends. But then again, he had admittedly never had a human friend before. Cultivating his truth had simply made human contact unnecessarily, and while he recognized that might seem odd to anyone else, he never truly cared about the thoughts of lesser minds.

But here was a girl with a great, untapped potential and a consideration for her Pokémon that was significantly higher than the general populace. Not only that, but this was the second time they had encountered each other completely by chance. Now, N didn’t believe in fate, but he _did_ believe in patterns and formulae, in a guiding principle that determined things that would otherwise be called a coincidence. Probability, luck and chance and providence, could only explain so much. The odds of one random girl with this blossoming skill and finesse, and this affably kind, albeit slightly puzzling, demeanor, meeting someone such as himself twice in the course of a matter of days? No, there was some underlying mechanic at work here, something that had drawn them here—for some reason that N had yet to discern, could not fathom. You could go ahead and call it fate, but N was pragmatic and he knew there was some sort of truth here, something—something _significant_ , some unforeseen variable—that was growing, budding, developing right before his eyes.

Normally, N would have looked at the girl and thought, _impossible_. He would have never thought another human being capable of rising up to meet his truths. But for some reason, when he looked at her, instead he thought, _maybe_.

He regarded her, this unforeseen variable in an otherwise meticulously crafted formula. "I... want to see things no one can see. A future where Pokémon have become perfect... Do you feel the same?”

Anyone else would have found that odd, but the girl tilted her head and rolled her eyes back as if in thought. “Well, gee. I dunno about perfect, per se, but yeah, I guess things _could_ be better for them, and I wanna see that happen. I mean, I don’t agree with Team Plasma’s methods or actions _at all_ , but they might sorta have a point in some cases, maybe?”

N was absolutely _delighted_ that someone, even a stranger like herself, was at least acknowledging his truth, if not almost accepting it in smaller, diluted increments. Without thinking, he clasped her hands in his and pulled her in a little closer, ignoring the way her eyes went wide and her body tensed as if expecting an attack.

“I think I understand what I need now—I need the power to make everyone agree with me. The power of the ultimate truth! And I will become a hero, just like in the stories of Unova’s creation.” He smiled at her, and didn’t notice how she flinched back. “And when I have completed my goal—you and I will be friends.”

“Um. Okay? Like, we could be friends now, if you want?” The girl’s smile was strangled, now. “And, maybe, let go?”

N let go like she requested, but he hardly heard anything else she said, too caught up in visions of the future where grey became black and white and of truth coalescing into a beautiful being with elegant white feathers and blazing blue eyes. In this daze of grandeur and ambition, he almost forgot the girl’s presence as he walked past, calculating in his head the exact steps it would take to awaken the legendary dragon and change the world.

“Um, hey!” the girl called out after him, flabbergasted at his sudden change in behavior. “Hello? You didn’t answer any of my questions!”

But he didn’t hear her until she sighed and muttered, “My name’s Hilda by the way. I don’t think I told you that before.” 

* * *

Fast forward two years, four months, one week, and three days—before Unova’s collapse but after Plasma’s, after the truth had long since come to light and ideals had smashed their way through it. After the air in Unova became crisper and colder all-season round, after Kyurem had been successfully saved and Ghetsis’s nefarious plot shattered beyond repair, after the Plasma Frigate had been grounded and after he’d returned to find Hilda long gone.

Victory Road had a sort of auspiciousness to it, something that holds true even to this day—and something that held true especially back then, even though it had been remade and remodeled after some disaster had temporarily closed down Route 10. That was what N thought as he leaned back against the cliff, eyes closed and head tilted upwards to the sky.

N looked up at the sound of footsteps. He could make out a figure climbing up the hill in the distance—brown hair, blue eyes, but not Hilda. This girl’s name was Rosa Alvarado, and where Hilda’s hair had been a mess of curls and waves, Rosa’s was stick-straight and pulled back into an elaborate fashion reminiscent of something N had seen in Kanto during the two years he’d spent traveling. But other than the differing style of dress and the fact that Rosa had a more serious demeanor to her (where Hilda was as black with ideals as it got, and N a stark white of truth in contrast, Rosa was more of neutral, grey presence that was swayed be neither and personified the very essence of world where truth and ideals could coexist harmoniously), N couldn’t help but think how alike they were. Both selfless and brave and possessing all the great qualities of a hero.

He rose as she came close. She tensed at the sight of him.

For a moment, they just stood there, blinking at each other.

N cleared his throat. “You came...”

“Um, yeah.” Rosa arched a brow. “I was on my way to challenge the Elite Four and Champion.”

He nodded. “The Pokémon League is just past Victory Road.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

N swallowed and averted his eyes. Hilda was never this curt.

(Hilda is high energy, reactive like alkali metals and explosive when exposed to the right catalyst, whereas Rosa is low energy, like the inert noble gases who are content to keep to themselves but can react, when pushed hard enough.)

“I talked to Cheren about you,” Rosa said suddenly, and N snapped his gaze back to her. “And Alder, and Bianca, and Professor Juniper. I also heard about you from Rood, and from Anthea and Concordia, too.”

He said nothing.

“And all those people, all with different allegiances... They all say the same thing—that you had good intentions, but you, along with the majority of Plasma, went about it the wrong way.” She tilted her head to the side. “Although, Cheren in particular said you couldn’t accept being wrong and it made you sorta nuts.”

N scowled. Of course _Cheren_ would say that (again, before they worked out all the kinks and came to an understanding).

Rosa regarded him for a moment. “...but you’re slightly different than what they described.”

He allowed his lips to twitch into a nostalgic smile. “I used to think battling served no other purpose than to injure Pokémon at the behest of foolhardy Trainers... That’s why I hated it. But, while traveling, I’ve learned that it’s so much more than that. It’s... a way for others to understand each other, and themselves. It’s a catalyst: a point of change that incites a chemical reaction. And the world is _always_ changing. Different ideas, and the accepting of such, can change the world in monumental ways! It’s amazing how the littlest things can incite such enormous changes!

“And those changes aren’t the same, either. Some of them are synthesis reactions, different ideas coming together to make something new. Others are decomposition, things breaking down after something violent and ugly. But others— _others_ are like combustion reactions, great bursts of heat and light that can change things so completely and utterly that it just... It’s _fascinating_!”

She eyed him, and he winced, having not meant to devolve into a monologue. He pulled out the HM he’d been carrying around and held it out for her to take.

“Here! Take this!” N cleared his throat again. That came out louder than it should have. “I mean—The new Victory Road has areas that are only accessible by Waterfall.”

Rosa blinked.

“And this is—this is Waterfall. For clarification.”

Rosa arched a brow and held her hand out to take it—but once she took hold, she didn’t let go. And they both just stood their, mutually holding the HM. The intensity in Rosa’s gaze made him want to look away.

He let go, awkwardly, but she continued to stare.

“What is this for?” she finally asked.

“Consider it a thank you,” N said humbly. “For—everything you’ve done.”

Rose looked startled. “Are you kidding me?”

N blinked, not understanding.

“Are you— _You’re_ thanking _me_?” She shook her head and stared at the HM, running her thumb over the plastic casing of the CD file (this was before they became those little white, numbered cubes). “If anything, _I_ should be thanking _you_. You saved my life, after all.”

Technically, he had. But when he’d rode in on his dragon-partner and saw lances of ice circling a brunette, his first thought had been that it was Hilda, having thrust herself into another dangerous situation. When he’d realized wasn’t her, he’d been admittedly disappointed (though he’d still do it again).

Rosa eyed the HM for a moment longer before tucking it into her bag. “Five years ago, my friend’s sister was targeted by Plasma. And yeah, they were active for longer than people thought they were, so it baffles a lot of people when I tell them this story. You’ve got that look in your eyes too—huh, even the former king didn’t know how active they were.  But, anyway. They stole her Purrloin, and it broke her heart. Since then, I’ve always disliked Plasma. Not as much as my friend, mind you, but I disliked them with a passion.

“If you had told me a few months ago that I would be here, talking with you—well, you and I would’ve had words.” Rosa gripped the strap of her bag, tightly, as if uncomfortable, and her gaze dropped to the ground. “...but now? Now all I can think to say is that you have a lot to answer for.”

N nodded in acknowledgement—because it was the truth. An ugly one, an unpleasant one, but truth nonetheless.

She looked up and began to walk past him, and then paused. “But I’d also like to say that, if you ever need help doing that—well, consider this a peace offering.”

And then she was walking away, and N was left staring at her back.

“I think I might take you up on that,” he heard himself say as she vanished into the horizon. 

* * *

About five months, three weeks, two days, and six hours later—N was revisiting the castle. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t be lingering in the gilded cage where he’d been raised on lies and blinded to the truth of the world. It was in ruins now, decrepit, as if to reflect its true nature as a place of poison and misguided ambitions.

Those visits always blur in N’s mind except for one detail. He remembers he always visited the throne room, where the final clash took place and ideals of one very passionate young woman had prevailed.

Rosa had caught him several times before, and they’d always battled (just to inject some semblance of life into that graveyard of shattered dreams, that dead, broken place) with enough ferocity to make the walls shake. But it was amicable and competitive only in the purest sense, no trace of animosity or the pressure of a clash with the fate of the world at stake.

That was why, when N heard footsteps echoing through the hall, he thought nothing of it, even though the pace was quicker than normal for the characteristically level-headed Rosa.

And then he realized there was an extra set of footfalls. One and one made two, not four, and N whirled around—

Hilda.

N almost thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, because the truth was that Hilda was gone, off pursuing ideals that transcended the boundaries of her homeland, and no way would she be caught _dead_ in this gilded graveyard. Except, this Hilda was no longer the young girl with the black vest and ripped shorts, but a worldlier version in worn jeans and a long-sleeved jacket, her hair still in a ponytail but longer, and she was looking straight at him with that magnesium-combustion smile.

Rosa came up from behind with a tiny, self-satisfied smile. “Hey! So, guess who came to the Pokémon League and won the Championship off me?”

 N opened his mouth, probably to say something, but then the older, worldlier Hilda started running straight towards him, and whatever he was going to say vanished in his throat as hit him— _really_ hit him—that Hilda was here, now, throwing her arms out, and then—

She collided into him (elastic collisions) in what was probably meant to be a simple but crushing hug, but in truth the momentum was enough to knock him off his feet (inelastic collision), and sent them both crashing into the ground (ideals overpowering truth, just as it had two years before).

N’s skull _clacked_ against the tile, hard enough to send huge black splotched exploding across his vision, and over the ringing in his ears he vaguely heard Hilda’s voice in the form of hasty apologies. There was the sound of hasty footsteps, and then a hand that likely wasn’t Hilda’s touched N’s shoulder.

“Ow,” he said.

“Sorry!” Hilda’s weight left him—and yes, it truly was Hilda King, he’d recognize that voice anywhere—and settled to his right. “Damn, I’m really— This isn’t how I imagined this going, y’know?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” N sat up and rubbed the back of his head, which was still throbbing, and realized that the fall had knocked his hat off. He glanced over his shoulder to see it a few feet away, looking past Rosa as he did so, the younger girl having settled on his left side. But then he looked up at Hilda, not quite as he remembered but Hilda nonetheless, and felt himself smile. “Good to see you, old friend.”

Hilda smiled back, blindingly. “You too, Mystery Man.”

* * *

Fast forward about forty-eight years, one month, two weeks, and four days later—and N is back where he started. Accumula City, after robots were built in the place of flesh and blood creatures, after the Trainer journey had been linearized so as to allow the rest of the region to regrow without the disturbance of foolhardy, inexperienced young humans who didn’t know any better.

Rosa’s probably around here, somewhere, doing her job as an agent of International Police and monitoring the emergence of any enigmatic and seemingly-menacing organization deemed worthy of caution, but N can’t see her through the crowd. Too many people. Too many heads that her hair-buns—odangos, they are actually called—to be hiding behind.

N watches patiently as the rally starts, silent but wary. It’s strikingly similar, the way the rally is being carried out, that it worries him more than words can explain (after all, was this not the exact spot he stood in, all those decades ago?).

The robed figure drops her hood and introduces herself as Magdalene. Her eyes shine with mechanical light but there’s something else about her that makes N keep his eyes on her. His gaze occasionally flickers from her to her old and very human escort, and a shiver of premonition runs down his spine. Too familiar. Too exact. Too precise. History repeats itself, sure, but not like _this_.

Magdalene leaves, and this Team Matrix departs with her, and the crowd begins to disperse as well. Just as N is trying to calculate the probability and the odds (though he gets the feeling that underlying mechanic is at work again) of this splinter group having no relation to Team Plasma in the slightest—he hears it.

An organic voice.

It’s not the first he’s head, and probably won’t be the last, but there’s a loneliness to it that makes N turn his head and frown.

The source is coming from a young girl—but probably not the girl itself, N deduces, more likely the source is a Pokémon, living and breathing, tucked away in a Poké Ball he can’t see. She’s young, around as young as Hilda was when he first met her, but maybe younger. Maybe. She’s accompanied by a brown-haired man in a matching brown trench coat, and a young woman that is obviously a Companion and is not built to hide it. The girl herself, well, she wears a fleecy hoodie that doesn’t entirely look like it’s meant to endure the harshness of nature (but what Trainer gear is, these days, after the wild has been stripped from the Routes and places it off limit) and her hair is a rusty, ruddy shade that looks brownish in the right light.

 _There must be some correlation between brunettes and saving the world_ , N thinks, because it can’t be a coincidence that she is standing in the exact same place Hilda once stood. That could only mean one thing, and N is well aware of how this underlying mechanic works.

She catches sight of him, and her eyes widen a little. He can hear her Oshawott’s voice from within his Ball, and a mechanical Patrat with a metallic voice that keeps N from smiling at all the positive things the Oshawott says about his (new) Trainer.

In that moment, N _knows_. And he goes over to her, intent on hearing more of her Pokémon’s voices.

(And here, this moment—this is the _catalyst_.)

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I'm not inspired by other people's works, but JX Valentine's Electric Sheep is absolutely stunning and I can honestly say it's one of the best multi-chaptered fics I've read in a long time. I highly recommend it.
> 
> You can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10578933/chapters/23378013.
> 
> Credit to the characters and the backstory goes to JX Valentine. Let me just emphasize that this NOT CANON with Electric Sheep whatsoever and ENTIRELY my own interpretation.
> 
> A lot of N's dialogue is pulled either directly from the game or slightly edited. But the twenty-plus chemistry and mathematic references are all me, and kudos to anyone who gets them!
> 
> That's all. Hope you like it, JX!
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> Luna


End file.
